The Principle
by Triple-Helix
Summary: Sequel to the much-loved The Substitute.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is a sequel of sorts to my other story: The Substitute. There are more chapters planned, probably 3 in total.

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach

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><p><strong>The Principle<strong>

They could forget, for a time. Forget the too-warm air of mid-summer days, and how it stubbornly clung to the streets and buildings far into the nights. How it would roll into their tiny apartment and sap the energy from them as they laid on the couch together.

They could forget the stress of the increasingly high pile of colored notices that were collecting on the bookshelf by the door. They could forget their frustration at his publisher rejections, cathartically torn and crumpled on the floor. They could forget how they loathed the meager checks her digital sales generated, always more insult than income, and the infuriating care each required to deposit them safely into their account.

They could forget the cost of books, of recording equipment, of ramen and diet coke and coffee. They could forget the socks on the floor, the chipped dishes drying by the sink, the thinness of their walls and the roar of the traffic outside. What they had was private, intimate, and their own. It did not matter what they did out there, it only mattered who they were in here. The things they owned, or didn't, the responsibilities they kept, or ignored, all of it was for other people.

Here, in the private sanctuary of their room, was where they could let everything else be forgotten.

The faux-flicker of LED tea lights danced with shadows on the walls, cotton sheets bought on sale slipped from the surface of the bed, the scent of desire and the pressure of spring-coiled tension filled the air. Hands across sweat-slick skin slipping, gripping, holding and kneading as gasping cries and choked breaths molded their lips into the familiar shapes. Complicated, complex things were not allowed here, only the simple. Only the good.

His fingers stretching up into her hair. The way her back arched as she rose and fell. The breathy moans that caught in her throat as he moved up to meet her. The shaking of her legs around his waist, his hand cupping her. The rhythm of their bodies, the delicious agony of raw pleasure, the denial of release and the desperate need to continue. The beauty of knowing denial was futile, that continuation was impossible, that release was impending. Rukia, eyes shut, head thrown back, tears leaking down tracks on her face, shuddered as the heat within her swirled and eddied. Whimpering with her lip caught between her teeth, she bit down harder to find some anchor in the firestorm. Muscles strung taut and quivering, nerves frayed by continuous, unyielding sensation, the long burn of prolonging her ever-more-difficult-to-deny release. He was fire in her hands, scorching her as she breathed him in, drew him inside.

Her hands clutching clumsily at his shoulders and winding through his damp hair left it spiked and mussed, and she tilted her chin down to catch his eyes. A hunger simmered in his eyes, eyes that only she was allowed to see. She tightened on him, her legs wrapped around him cinching just to watch the emotions play across his face. Disbelief and incredulity mingled with delight and anticipation. She smiled and pressed her forehead to his own, their hips moving of their own accord, and she dragged her body against his. Surface thoughts were swept away from his face, leaving it blissfully blank she let the only two cool points in the room track down the heated skin of his chest, the ice that quenched his fire.

Her own breath caught as the sensation of her breasts, nipples adorned with their silver rings, slipped across his body. She could feel all of him; like electricity humming from the anchor of their hips to the tips of her hair, his low, rumbling moan reverberating up her spine. His eyes cleared as disbelief and incredulity returned, deeper and more precious than before. That she would want him, of all people. That he could be hers. A fire swirled in his eyes, a surge of possessive vigor that she could feel through his hands, see in his eyes. She met him there, unafraid to feel the heat of his gaze, knowing how much he gave of himself to her and showing him that she welcomed it, cherished it. He was hers, and she, his.

Kisses, tender and rough, fiery and feathery, made their way along the column of her neck and across the line of his jaw, each laced with the relief of their completion but still aching with desire for more. She quaked in his arms, their room was the only place they allowed themselves to be so unguarded. Lips met lips not as duelists, but as dancers. Warm breaths mingled, the motion of their bodies quickened, senses heightened. Sun and moon in eternal interplay, and their alignment was coming.

There was a shift in his lips, a widening of his eyes, an urgency to feel of his fingers on her body and the tenuous hold she had managed to maintain despite the urging of her body, despite the clamoring cries of her soul, was slipping. A breathless smile of intimate understanding, a fervent nod of exultant expectation, and awareness of anything that was not the other began to fray, cast aside as irrelevant. The tightened coil within them, denied and refused and clenched upon with all the power they could muster, now swept back at them with all the rage and fury of the sea, inescapable and undeniable.

There are moments in time, a singular points where the scale tips between states of being. The transitions between wake and sleep, between unknown and known, between life and death, instants where the mind experiences the jolt and the frisson and the tinge of emptiness. Life is filled with memories shared with family, friends, lovers and strangers, but these moments flicker by and we are alone in them. Too many of life's moments are lonely, too many cannot be shared.

But between build and release, between the pressure and the break, between the futile denial of the inevitable and the embrace of climactic failure, this moment is not spent alone... The body can feel the race of the pulses beating together, the equal struggle for breath, the muscles bunching and quivering and the eyes, wide and dark and infinite and intimate and know... know, that I am here with you, you are not alone.

The scale tips.

They tumbled over that barrier, bodies seeking union as release shuddered through them, their minds unravelling in blissful, torturous waves. They were lost, together and clinging with shaking hands, souls and bodies entwined, clutching to each other as ragged breathes tore themselves from their lips. Her hands fisting into his hair, her breathing turned to shaky gasps as she was swept up, his heat filling her. His hands across her back, holding her pressed to him, his touch gentle as their rhythm eased, the spasming muscles of her body beginning to calm. She wore a smile of deep contentment, her eyes closed and hair falling messily across her face.

They lay together later, having made a mess of their sheets and drunkenly laughing about it, considering it a victory over low-thread count, cheap uncomfortable sheets everywhere. Their candles had been turned off and all that remained was the dark of their room and the feel of one another, held close as idle patterns were drawn onto flushed skin.

"Ichigo," she whispered, "I love you. And not just because you're good in the sack."

"I love you too," he said. "And thanks for clarifying that. Also, 'good' is all I get?"

"Yeah well," Rukia said, laying her head on the pillow of his arm and nestling closer until she was comfortable. "We'll just have to keep practicing," she added sleepily.

He kissed the top of her head and chuckled, content to let her get the last word.

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><p>"Alright, you have your assignments," Ichigo said, peering out over the top of the book at his assembled class. Clamor and din were rising as they packed up their bags, the ringing of the final bell dying away. "I want those papers on my desk by the end of school, Friday. And don't think that just because the bell rang that you can ignore me, Friday people!"<p>

The students filed out, leaving the classroom empty save for himself. The afternoon sun that filtered through the wall of windows had a grayish cast to it and Ichigo frowned to himself. A storm might be coming. He packed his things and made his way through the emptying halls, rounding the corner to the steps leading to the parking lot before he paused.

"You a parent?" he asked to the figure standing on the steps. He'd initially thought the man lost or bewildered, but it was quickly apparent to Ichigo the man was neither. Only cold and indifferent. At a loss for what to say, Ichigo continued only with a mildly suspicious, "Can I help you?"

The man stared through him before crossing his arms, an expensive but tasteful watch glinting from the cuff of his expensive but tasteful suit. "No, I've seen all I need to see," he replied. He turned on his heel and slipped into the back of a shiny black car.

Ichigo, perplexed, watched him be driven off as he shaded his eyes from the sun. "Prick."

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><p>Dinner was over but he hadn't cleaned up the dishes, he'd just moved to the other side of the table to start grading. Annoyed, she pointed and earned several nods and dismissive motions with his hands, his pen gripped between his teeth. She quirked an eyebrow at him, a clear challenge, and watched his brows clench in response.<p>

"I'm going to brush my teeth," she warned. They'd lived together long enough for him to interpret the message.

He made more dismissive gestures but resolutely stood from his pages and gradebooks, dropping the pen and beginning to gather the dishes. Humming to herself, trying to find a melody she could work with, she slipped off to the tiny bathroom and wet her toothbrush. Smearing paste on it, she popped in her mouth and twiddled a dry-erase marker with her other hand. One half of their mirror was covered in her tiny, precise writing, words and phrases she liked, grouped in an organizational strategy only she could decipher. Some of her best songs had come off their impromptu white-board mirror, though from the state of her sales, that wasn't saying much. She sighed, the sound of the brush against her teeth filling her ears and the taste of mint filling her mouth was not conducive to her creativity, she so decided to head to the bedroom and find her pajamas.

Her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, brushing one handed, she awkwardly managed to get her jeans off and kicked over close to the hamper when she heard Ichigo say something from the other room. Clad only in her panties and tank, her toothbrush still in her mouth and toothpaste foam gathered at the side of her lips, she walked back out to see what he wanted.

Ichigo was off to the side, looking slightly off balance and a storm building on his face. But there was another person in their apartment, impeccably dressed and terrifyingly familiar. He turned a stoney, disapproving look in her direction and she felt her heart clench within her chest.

Ichigo had never seen her move so fast in his life. One moment she was standing in the hall in next to nothing, the next she was gone. She came rushing back out of the bathroom hastily tying a robe around herself and wiping away the remnants of toothpaste, her eyes curiously staying on the floor. She came to a stop across the room from them and said nothing.

"Hello, Rukia." There was no warmth, no emotion at all, in the man's voice.

"You know this guy? Because he just barged in here..." Ichigo said, affronted.

"Yes," Rukia said, eyes down and voice soft. "Hello, brother."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach

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><p>The man strode briskly through the door and out into the hallway, turned on his heel and was gone, not even bothering to spare a backwards glance.<p>

"So, that was your brother?" These were the first words out of his mouth as he firmly shut the door behind the man. It was an obvious statement on the face of it, but the way his mouth formed the letters, the feel of the words on his tongue and the stinging tone that carried them across the room conveyed the depth of his sentiments regarding their recent visitor.

Rukia, looking pale and small on the couch, her hands folded in her lap and eyes focused at a spot on their coffee table, made no movement as she spoke. "Yes."

Ichigo studied her. Running a rueful hand through his hair and sighing, he stepped away from the door and his bitter feelings, and strode briskly past her. Heading to the kitchen, he removed a pair of bottles from the fridge, uncapped them, and returned to the couch. He handed one to her which she numbly accepted.

"What are we gonna do?" she asked, finding her voice and turning her eyes to him.

"Drink," he said, and clinked the neck of the bottle in his hand against hers. "To family."

She realized the bottle in her hand a moment later, and despite still having the taste of mint and fear in her mouth, leaned back on the couch with him and took a drink from her beer. "To family," she chuckled, letting a mirthless smile turn up the edges of her lips. "Ichigo, I..."

"Need to tell me a few things?"

She nodded behind the security of another drink of beer, eyes wide and earnest.

"Well," he said, eyeing her critically. "Either you didn't think it was important before now, or weren't ready for it to be important yet. Your brother seems to have taken that decision out of your hands though." There was a fleeting moment of aggrived frustration that flickered across her face and he knew he had guessed her feelings.

"I, it's complicated."

Ichigo tilted his head at the door. "Guy like that for a brother, I'm betting it's not simple."

"You're not mad?"

He scoffed. "Dealing with family can be difficult, I should know." It was her story, her family. He didn't have the right to demand or expect explanations from every skeleton in her closet and while it stung a little to not have been told ahead of time, he couldn't really blame her for not knowing how to approach the subject. He swallowed his pride and put his arm around her, doing his best to convey that when she was ready to talk, that he'd be there. He was pretty sure she knew that already.

She leaned against his shoulder and took another drink, if only to do something with her mouth. "Thanks," she said finally. He was quiet, and nursed his own beer in late evening watching the night sky. The stars were winking out, snuffed out by the line of storm clouds that had been threatening to roll in all day. "Byakuya is my brother, but it's not like we're a real family," she began.

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><p>"So why is her brother such a douche?" Grimmjow glanced Ichigo's way, leaning over the pool table and lining up his shot. The crack of billiard balls colliding broke the general din of the bar, a sharp report layered over the indistinct murmuring.<p>

"I dunno," Ichigo said, standing with a pool cue across his shoulder. He was looking down at the expanse of green felt but his mind wasn't on the game. "They just have a weird kind of relationship," he deflected.

"Doesn't explain why he's a douche," Grimmjow pointed out. He lined up another shot and blew a few strands of hair from his eyes. "If a guy like that just _dismissed_ me? I wouldn't have stood for it."

Ichigo was regretting mentioning anything to Grimmjow already, so he did little more than shrug at his friend's aggrivation-by-proxy. Truthfully, he'd hope that by trying to explain what had happened (respecting Rukia's right to privacy as much as he could), he'd be able to gain some perspective on how Byakuya fit into her life. In hindsight, he should have known that Grimmjow was the wrong person to look for insight with.

"People don't do shit like that for no reason," Grimmjow had gone to argue, Ichigo slowly coming back to the conversation. "So if you find out _why_ he's being such an imperious dick, you'll know what the fuck is going on."

"Maybe he's just trying to tell me something," Ichigo muttered.

"Oh God," Grimmjow cursed, "Are we going to turn this into another arguement about subtext? Not everyone is out there trying to convey a message, Kurosaki."

"Yeah, and not everyone out there needs a reason to be a giant dick," Ichigo shot back, stepping up to take his turn as Grimmjow retrieved his beer. "Sometimes psych teachers and rich businessmen just are."

Grimmjow lifted his glass in mock salute before spying an approaching figure. "Whoa, what the hell's wrong with Cifer? He looks paler than usual."

Indeed, the third member of their group was making his way past them, a slightly dazed, haunted look on his face. Ichigo was somewhat surprised he made it to the bar without incident, and the way he fell heavily on a seat, his shoulders sagging away from the usual rigidity and his hands figiting on the top of the bar instead of jammed inside his pockets were all significantly out of character. Mildly alarmed, Ichigo and Grimmjow exchanged a look before stepping over towards their friend.

"Hey Cifer, how's tricks?" Grimmjow asked, his nonchalant tone covering up the scrutinization in his eyes.

"Whisky, neat," Ulquiorra ordered, ignoring or not hearing Grimmjow. "Double."

Now Ichigo knew something was wrong. He siddled into the seat next to him and studied his profile. "Evening, Ulquiorra."

"Yes," the man replied, accepting the drink and staring into it. "Yes? What, of course," he muttered, finally turning to Ichigo and Grimmjow. "Good evening," he said, coming out stuttered and forced rather than his usual dry monotone.

The man's utter distraction was not lost on the two of them and they exchanged a look over the top of Ulquiorra's head. "Ichigo and I," Grimmjow began, the corner of his mouth quirking up, "Were just talking about women."

Ichigo watched Ulquiorra's head give a sudden start, his eyes widening ever so slightly. Bingo. "Speaking of, how's Orihime?"

Ulquiorra schooled his features. "Onna is fine."

"You know you don't have to keep calling her that," Grimmjow pointed out, "She doesn't work at the school anymore, you don't have to keep it a secret."

"Not that it was much of a secret," Ichigo added.

"I am perfectly aware of her employment status," Ulquiorra replied. He sipped his drink a little too deeply and winced.

Ichigo let the moment draw onward until he asked, "Something going on there?"

"On-" he cleared his throat, "Orihime... has asked me to marry her." Ulquiorra blinked, slowly, and then took another drink.

Silence rang following this annoucement. Shocked and confused, Ichigo and Grimmjow held a brief, intense and utterly silent conversation composed entirely of facial expressions behind Ulquiorra's back. The two of them finally settled a moment later on being cautiously congratulatory.

"Wow," Grimmjow said, at a loss for more significant words. "She... asked you?"

"Indeed," Ulquiorra said, eyes still far away.

"So," Ichigo picked up, "What'd... you say?" He caught Grimmjow's interested look, though he made a show of setting his beer down carefully.

"I have not given her an answer yet."

"What? Dude, you need to fix that shit." Grimmjow's face was a growing storm. "That's not the kind of question you just leaving hanging until you get around to it."

"I had no idea you had such strong opinions on the topic of marriage, Grimmjow," Ulquiorra said, turning his way.

"I don't give a crap about a lot of stuff, but I know a dick move when I see one. You know the longer you hedge, the crazier it's gonna make her. Right now it's playing on her mind that she wasn't good enough to say yes to immediately."

Ulquiorra looked at him sharply. "She is perfect."

Grimmjow raised his hands in surrender, feigning the picture of innocence, and tried a different tack. "What made her ask you?" He got a sly look on his face, asking, "You knock her up?"

"No," was all he answered. Anyone not familiar with Ulquiorra's expressions wouldn't have detected a change, but his two friends did see the slight tightening of his eyes. Ulquiorra was fuming.

"So you've got the perfect girl, who isn't pregnant, has a job, is smoking hot and wants to marry you. I don't know what your problem is..." Grimmjow paused Ichigo could've sworn he heard the gears shift in the man's head. "Unless you're the problem."

Ulquiorra nodded and before Grimmjow could continue analyzing him he said, "I am concerned that I am unfit to share a life with her."

Ichigo raised a brow at this, he knew Ulquiorra and Orihime didn't exactly fit the classic expectations of relationships, but they still managed to fit together like pieces of a puzzle when he'd seen them together. "C'mon man, don't think like that."

"I must," Ulquiorra said. "She prefaced her entire proposal with the directive that I take time to think about it. That I keep my plans to 'meet the boys' and 'have a good time' tonight, and that she'll be waiting."

"So, what's the hangup then?" Grimmjow pressed.

"She... is... vibrant," he settled on. "Pleasant and positive and open and gracious. She challenges me to think in ways I'm not used to, and is clever in ways that I am not."

This was more than what they usually heard from Ulquiorra and it left Ichigo a little stunned. "And that's a problem because?" Ichigo asked.

"I am none of those things." Uquiorra took another, longer sip from his glass. "So how can I make her happy?"

"Ulquiorra, sure, you're quiet and a little reserved-"

"And dour-"

"And maybe a little acerbic-"

"Oh! And critical-"

"And a little O-C-D about 'truth'-"

"If you are quite finished, I believe you are making my point for me."

Ichigo clapped Ulquiorra comraderly on the shoulder, "Nah man, what you're failing to realize is that all those things you talked about, all those things that let you know she's happy? Maybe it's not just 'how she is', maybe it's because of how you make her feel?"

"Plus," Grimmjow said, accepting another beer and resting with his arm on the bar, "Despite all that stuff wrong with you, she still chose you."

"She can do better," Ulquiorra alleged.

"She sure as hell could!" Grimmjow agreed, earning another sharp glance. "Girl like that could have anyone they wanted." He poked Ulquiorra hard in the shoulder. "And for some reason, she wants you."

Ulquiorra closed his mouth and turned to face the bar again, taking another sip of his drink. "You have a point. Possibly."

"You hear that Grimmjow?" Ichigo asked.

"I think that may have been a first, I wasn't aware Ulquiorra even knew how to say those words."

"You know those aren't the only words that're important," Ichigo fished.

"If you are implying that I do not know how to tell her I love her, you are mistaken." Ulquiorra took another sip of his whisky. "She knows perfectly well how I feel."

"And she loves you back," Grimmjow said chuckling. "This isn't that fucking hard, man."

The man in question studiously ignored them, fished his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen a few times. Holding the phone to his ear, he patiently waited for it to connect. "Hello... I have considered your proposal, and I accept... Yes, I am as well... Good night, Orihime." He pocketed the phone and took another sip of his drink.

"I guess that's that," Ichigo said, a smile stretching across his face. "Next one's on me, my friend's getting married!"

"-To a girl way out of his league!" Grimmjow added.

The bartender served them cheerfully and Ichigo was happy for his friend's slowly warming enthusiasm, expressed in his own peculiar Ulquiorraesque way. Later that evening as they were headed out, Ulquiorra stopped in the men's room and Grimmjow took the opportunity to pull him over to the side. Smelling strongly of beer, he said in as hushed a whisper as he could manage, "I'm onta that girl."

"What're you talking about?" Ichigo gave his friend the puzzled glance of the drunken but interested.

"Orrahemay," he slurred. "She popped him the question and den sent him ou' wif us."

"Yeah, so?"

"She knew he'd bring it up, and be all tor-churred an shit abou' it, and that we'd talk to 'im and make 'im see reason."

"You really think so?"

Grimmjow nodded heavily but stopped almost immediately. "Shesa crafty one, Ulqui'd be lost in nah-lis-tical nonesense wifout us and never come to a conclu-shun."

"Nihlistical? Did you just make that up?" Ichigo shugged, pushing the door open and leading out his more drunk than usual friend. "He didn't seem that he needed much convincing to me, more like he was just testing out our own reactions."

Grimmjow screwed up his face, staring blearily at Ichigo. "I feel so _used_. Fuck, they're perfect for each other."

Ulquiorra exited the bar and joined them, "Good night. Thank you, for, your advice tonight."

Grimmjow had a dawning look of comprehension. "Crap," he turned to face Ichigo, "What're you gonna do about Rukia?"

"I dunno, I'll think of something," Ichigo replied, waving off the subject. "Too much family stuff going on around here." Ulquiorra tilted his head in mild confusion. "You and Orihime getting married, Rukia and I dealing with her brother, the only thing left is if Grimmjow was having a baby."

Ichigo might've said it offhand, but the slightly pale-green tinge that rushed over the man was alarming. "Thanks for that flood of adren-lin, asshole," Grimmjow accused, reaching for his own phone, "I gotta call Nel and check... and she's gonna be pissed..." He wandered off down the sidewalk a bit, his opening line of, "Hey baby, this is gonna sound like a weird question..." trailing off, caught in the noise of the occasional car rolling by.

"There is a problem?" Ulquiorra asked.

"Just her brother," Ichigo explained, "It's... complicated."

"She was orphaned at a young age, was she not?"

"Yeah."

"Perhaps Orihime may be able to help, she experienced a similar situation."

Ichigo's brows drew down as he watched another car go, this one a limosine. Something Grimmjow had said struck a chord in him just then, 'girl like that could have anyone she wanted, and for some reason, she wants you.'

"That's a good idea, Ulquiorra," Ichigo said, watching the limosine turn out of sight, "I think you may have the right idea after all..."


End file.
